Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.9

After a rather nice impromptu late lunch with Mrs Newey with some thai nibbles in the beer garden of a local pub I got back and wondered what the hell I'm going to fish for the following morning. But then there are moments in angling that feel less like fishing and more like stumbling into a watery conspiracy.  One minute you’re minding your own business, unhooking what can only be described as a canal mud sifter with delusions of grandeur, and the next—bang—the surface erupts like someone’s dropped a family-sized bath bomb into the cut. 

Not subtle, not polite, not the sort of thing a well-mannered roach would RSVP to. No, this was a full-on aquatic kerfuffle. Now, I’ve seen my fair share of surface signs. The gentle sip of a roach, like a librarian quietly judging your choice of bait. 

The confident swirl of a rudd, all swagger and no apology. But this? This was neither tea nor coffee—it was a full English breakfast of disturbance. Boils, swirls, the odd flick that suggested something down there had either found religion or lost its temper.

And here’s the thing—this wasn’t gin-clear, aquarium-style water where you can name the fish and ask after their families. This was proper coloured canal water. The sort that looks like it’s been steeped in builder’s tea and regret. Normally, you’re fishing blind in conditions like this, relying on instinct, experience, and the vague hope that something with fins shares your optimism. Yet here were signs. Actual, undeniable signs. Fishy graffiti on the surface saying, “We’re here, mate. But good luck guessing who we are.”

Naturally, this triggered the ancient angler’s reflex: curiosity mixed with mild delusion. Only one way to find out, I thought, which is usually the prelude to either brilliance or embarrassment. Sometimes both. So for this session, out came the lift float—my old, faithful conspirator in all things roachy—paired with a bit of groundbait and maggots, because if there’s one thing roach love, it’s a free buffet with questionable hygiene standards. 

The morning itself was one of those rare gems. Quiet. Still. The sort of calm that makes you feel like you’ve accidentally walked into a postcard. Birds chirping, the occasional ripple, and at one point what I can only assume was a lamb expressing itself in a deeply personal way. Nature, as ever, keeping it classy. 

I'd only a few hours with a busy ahead as with family stuff in the afternoon I was heading to a DJ gig in Brum with Lloyd Barwood one of progressive houses brightest new talents being both a producer and DJ and a lovely fella he is too, this picture taken before the gig started and a nice chat about him living his dream. 

I'd seen him in Liverpool not long back warming up for Sasha before he went b2b with his hero, but this time the Hare and Hounds a venue where UB40 performed their first gig was ideal to showcase his banging beats of repetitiveness. 

In contrast to quiet fishing with only bird song or a lamb trumping the solitude but variety is the spice of life you know. Anyway, beneath this serene surface, there was mischief. You could feel it. Every now and then, another swirl. Another hint. Like the canal was winking at me, saying, “You’re close… but not that close.” The float behaved itself for the most part—lifting here and there with just enough suggestion to keep the brain ticking. Classic roach behaviour. Delicate. Thoughtful. The sort of bite that says, “I’ll take it… but I’m not happy about it.”

But then !!

The canal, in its infinite wisdom (and questionable hygiene), decided that today was not a day for heroes but for mongrels those suspicious, vaguely fish-shaped entities that look as though they were assembled from leftover parts in a damp shed. Out they came to play, nudging at liquidised bread like pensioners at a reduced bakery shelf, while my maggots dangled with all the dignity of a soggy chandelier. 

I fished one swim, then another, then another—like a man searching for a lost remote in increasingly unlikely places—only to discover that the fish had the collective enthusiasm of a committee meeting.

What did I catch? Ah yes—creatures. Not fish in the proud, silver-flanked sense, but… beings. Tatty little customers, each looking like it had lost a bar fight with a shopping trolley. Not one of them particularly large, mind you, though each carried itself with the baffling confidence of something that believes it ought to be bigger. Canal fishing, as ever, served up its daily special: unpredictability with a side of mild disappointment. You turn up expecting a story; you leave with a shrug and a faint smell of skimmer regret.

Still, there were bites little taps of encouragement, like the canal whispering, “Go on, keep trying, this might improve.” It did not improve. And where, pray tell, were the roach? Not a single one. Vanished. Evaporated. Possibly attending a conference elsewhere on more agreeable waters. It’s the sort of mystery that keeps anglers awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if the fish are unionising.

And so, with spirits neither lifted nor entirely crushed just gently sat upon I packed up. Another session concluded, another tale added to the ever-growing anthology of “well, that happened.” Onwards to the next outing, where expectations will once again be inflated beyond reason, only to be expertly punctured by a canal that knows exactly what it’s doing and refuses to explain itself.

Back to the full-on bread attack, I think—this isn’t going too well. 

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.148 (Canal Carp Pandemoniun)

Now there are meals, blog readers, and then there are life-altering decisions disguised as dinner. The spicy slow cooked Lamb Bhuna from the evening prior was firmly in the latter category. It began innocently enough poppadom's fluttering in like edible confetti, dips lined up with military precision but quickly escalated into a full-scale culinary siege. 

Starters were “shared” in the same way politicians share responsibility, followed by a naan so laden with cheese and chilli it could have doubled as industrial sealant, and a garlic rice that insisted on being noticed long after the curtain had fallen. By the end of it, I wasn’t so much full as structurally compromised.

Morning arrived with all the grace of a bailiff. The previously evenings food was now sat heavy and unmoving, like a beanbag filled with regret. Thus, a fasting day was declared not out of some enlightened wellness epiphany, but because the mere thought of food triggered mild flashbacks. Still, the world waits for no man, especially one who’s overindulged in curry, and after a long day at work, I found myself drawn toward the canal like a slightly bloated pilgrim in search of redemption.

Now, this wasn’t just any casual wander. This was prompted by intelligence classified, whispered, and mildly exaggerated—courtesy of Buffalo Si of YouTube notoriety, a man who speaks of fish sightings with the reverence of someone describing UFO encounters. Carp had been seen, he said. Milling. Loitering. Existing in that tantalising way fish do when you’re not there. And so, armed with this information and a stomach still negotiating its terms of service, I set off.

The canal itself is but a five-minute jaunt away, which lulls you into a false sense of convenience. The actual destination, however, requires a walk that feels less like a fishing trip and more like a test of character. I briefly considered taking the bike, but my knee—still recovering from what I’ll generously describe as a “spirited” episode at the Glasgow Deep Dish DJ gig (64,000 steps in two days) suggested otherwise. So, legs it was. Each step a reminder that naan has consequences.

Upon arrival, naturally, the universe decided to have a laugh. There, moored with impeccable comedic timing, was a boat. Not just anywhere, mind you—exactly where I intended to fish. Of all the miles of canal, this floating monument to inconvenience had chosen my spot. After a brief and polite exchange with its owner, who confirmed he’d seen nothing fishy whatsoever (helpful), I trudged on, clinging to optimism like a man who refuses to check his bank balance and headed down to an area where I used to spot them before.

Then, just as doubt began to settle in, a flicker. A disturbance. The unmistakable sign of something alive and worth bothering. As I edged closer, peering through the reeds with all the subtlety of a man trying not to breathe too loudly, I saw them. Two carp. Just… there. Sunbathing. Loafing. Existing without a single care in the world.

They’d positioned themselves perfectly in a patch of sunlight breaking through the trees, like retirees who’d found the best deckchairs on holiday and refused to move. The rest of the canal lay in shadow, moody and uninviting, but here—this golden pocket of warmth—they basked, smug and serene. It was, frankly, offensive.

With the kind of stealth usually associated with burglars in slapstick films, I crept into position and introduced a few pieces of bread into their general vicinity. At first, nothing. They ignored it completely, as if I’d just offered them unsolicited advice. But then something shifted. The larger of the two turned, clocked the bread, and began moving toward it with the kind of slow, deliberate confidence that suggested either supreme intelligence… or none whatsoever.

What followed can only be described as a masterclass in poor decision-making from the fish. It approached the bread like a chub on a summer’s day, casual, carefree, and utterly unbothered by the concept of consequences. A gentle sip, a moment’s pause, and then commitment.

Naturally, I wasted no time. Hook bait deployed. Underarm flick executed with all the grace of a man who’s just remembered he hasn’t eaten all day. The bread landed perfectly. The line, however, sat visibly on the surface—usually enough to spook even the most gullible of fish. But not this one. Oh no. This one had places to be. Specifically, my landing net.

It approached. It inspected. It sucked.

And then—pandemonium.

The strike was immediate, and the response from the fish was less “mild inconvenience” and more “absolute betrayal of the highest order.” It tore off like it had somewhere urgent to be, my rod bending into a shape that suggested it was reconsidering its career choices. My clutch, set tighter than my jeans after the Bhuna, protested accordingly, while my arms began to question the entire premise of recreational fishing.

What followed was a battle. Not elegant, not refined just a full-on, arm-aching, dignity-testing scrap with a fish that had, moments earlier, looked like it couldn’t be bothered to blink. The second carp, understandably, vacated the premises with immediate effect, no doubt filing a mental note titled “Never Trust Floating Bread Again.”

Eventually, through a combination of persistence, mild luck, and what I can only assume was the fish deciding it had made its point, I brought it in. And there it was a proper carp. Solid. Handsome. Slightly annoyed. A fish that, despite its earlier lapse in judgment, had given a thoroughly respectable account of itself.

I admired it briefly, thanked it silently (as is tradition), and watched it disappear back into the canal, hopefully a little wiser and significantly more suspicious of baked goods. And that, readers, was the lot. No more sightings. No more opportunities. Just a mile of walking, one gloriously obliging fish, and the quiet satisfaction that sometimes, just sometimes, things go your way even if it’s largely due to a carp having a momentary lapse in critical thinking.

As I made the long walk back, arms still humming and stomach finally beginning to forgive me, I couldn’t help but reflect. Angling isn’t always about skill. Sometimes it’s about timing. Sometimes it’s about luck. And occasionally, it’s about being there at precisely the moment a fish decides to behave like an absolute beginner. Mission accomplished. Balance restored. And somewhere beneath that canal’s surface, a slightly embarrassed carp is probably telling its mates it meant to do that all along.

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.147 (Canal Zander Carnage)

I slipped, quite unintentionally of course, into what can only be described as “retirement mode” on Friday afternoon. Not the pipe-and-slippers version, mind you, but the far more dangerous variety that begins with the innocent phrase: “Shall I just get the bus?” Now, any man who willingly boards a £3 bus on a Friday afternoon alongside what I can only affectionately describe as the purple rinse brigade is either embracing life… or has quietly given up. I’m still undecided which camp I fall into.

There we were, trundling along at a pace that would concern a tortoise, surrounded by a symphony of boiled sweet wrappers, unsolicited life advice, and one chap loudly explaining his knee replacement to a woman who clearly hadn’t asked. Still, three quid to Stratford-Upon-Avon ain't too bad. You couldn’t drive there for that unless your car runs on optimism and loose change.

Naturally, no cultured outing is complete without a swift one in Spoons, where I parted with another £3 for a port stout that tasted like it had been brewed in Shakespeare’s own sock drawer. I say that with love, of course. There’s something wonderfully reassuring about a Wetherspoons: sticky carpets, questionable lighting, and a clientele that looks like they’ve all just wandered in from different decades.

Suitably refreshed (or at least numbed), I met the Wife at the Red Lion, freshly done out and looking like it had ambitions far above my budget. Now, when a place is described as “newly refurbished,” what it really means is they’ve doubled the price of everything and put a plant where the fruit machine used to be. Still, fair play it was a cracking late lunch, and for a brief moment I felt like a man of refinement rather than someone who had just arrived on a pensioners’ bus tour.

Of course, Stratford was already heaving. The kind of busy that makes you question whether there’s been a secret national memo telling everyone to go there at once. With the half marathon looming and Shakespeare’s Birthday Parade on the horizon, it was clear that by the weekend it would resemble a medieval mosh pit. Lovely weather, mind you the sort that tricks you into thinking everything in your life is under control.

Which brings us neatly to the garden. Now, I have a complicated relationship with gardening. By complicated, I mean I hate it with the burning intensity of a thousand suns. Yet somehow, every year, I find myself out there, mower in hand, pretending I know what I’m doing. Lawns were cut, the deck was jet washed (or “pressure blasted into submission”), and I stood there afterwards surveying the chaos thinking, “That’s still a lot of work.” Gardens, I’ve decided, are just outdoor to-do lists that grow.

And then—fatal mistake—I checked the price of skips. I nearly needed one just to dispose of my own disbelief. Honestly, for what they charge, you’d expect it to come with a butler and a complimentary weekend in Benidorm . I’m fairly certain I could book a cheap flight to Spain, stay in a questionable hotel, and return with a mild sunburn for less than the cost of having a metal box dropped on my driveway.

Still, once the chores were done, the reward came in the form of a proper BBQ on Saturday. Just me, the Wife, a plate of slightly overconfident Cajun chicken and burgers, and the unmistakable sound of 80s and 90s classics pumping out of the JBL Partybox like we were hosting Glastonbury in the back garden. There’s something magical about that moment—cold white wine in hand, meat on the grill, and absolutely no intention of doing anything productive for the rest of the weekend.

Which, naturally, brings us to today. Because no matter how relaxed you get, there’s always that itch. That little voice whispering, “Go on… just one cast.” So there I was, gear already in the car (because preparation is key, or laziness the night before—same thing), with a stash of roach deadbaits quietly fermenting in the back like a biological experiment gone wrong.

The plan? A cheeky after-work mission to tempt a canal zander. Nothing too serious, just a quick dabble, a flick of the rod, and the vague hope of glory. Because that’s the thing about fishing it doesn’t matter how busy life gets, how expensive skips become, or how many lawns need mowing. There’s always time, somehow, to stand by the water, stare into the murky depths, and convince yourself that today… today might just be the day.

And if not, well… at least it beats gardening, still enough of the preamble were they biting ?

Well I swear on a dented keepnet and a half-squashed tin of luncheon meat, some sessions begin with a plan and others begin with destiny giving you a cheeky wink from under the surface. This, dear reader, was very much the latter. 

There I was, en route to my intended hotspot (a place that, historically speaking, owes me fish, money, and an apology), when the canal itself practically shouted, “Oi! Over here, genius!” A suspicious ripple turned into a full-blown aquatic commotion — the kind of surface disturbance that makes a seasoned canal botherer like myself go weak at the knees and slightly cross-eyed with excitement.

Now, when you’ve spent enough time peering into murky water like a hopeful heron with a caffeine problem, you develop a sixth sense for nonsense. And this was not nonsense. This was fish. Proper fish. Plural. A gathering. A convention, even. The water was so shallow that every subtle movement translated into surface signals little “burps” and flickers like the canal was gossiping about what lurked beneath. 

Naturally, I abandoned all previous plans with the decisiveness of a man who’s just heard the chippy is doing half-price chips. Rod out. Float in. Game on.

Within seconds and I mean blink-and-you’ll-miss-it seconds the left float dipped like it had been insulted. Strike! Missed it. Classic. But that was enough. 

That was confirmation. These weren’t your average canal loafers. Oh no. These were Zander the underwater equivalent of moody nightclub bouncers with teeth. I dropped the rig back in with the composure of a man pretending he didn’t just fluff his first chance, when suddenly… bob… bob… wallop! Right under my feet! I struck again and this time connected with something that clearly had places to be and no intention of including me in its itinerary.

What followed was less “graceful angling battle” and more “brief but intense disagreement.” The rod hooped over, the fish bolted, I muttered things that would make a barbel blush, and after a couple of determined runs it begrudgingly allowed itself to be netted. Now, at first glance, I thought, “Nice fish, five-pound-ish.” Then I actually looked at it. Length like a ruler. Girth like it had been on a steady diet of other fish with poor life choices. Scales gleaming. Attitude intact. On the scales: 6lb 14oz. A proper canal Zander. The sort of fish that makes you stand a little taller and immediately forget every blank you’ve ever suffered.

Back it went, no fuss, no drama — just a respectful nod between predator and fool-with-a-rod. Naturally, I carried on fishing because, let’s be honest, you don’t just leave a situation like that. That would be madness. Enter: Dog Walker. Every good session needs one. Fresh to the area, curious, slightly bewildered by the sight of a grown adult grinning at a canal like it just told him a joke. As I explained what was occurring (with the calm authority of a man who absolutely did not expect any of this), the canal decided to show off. Two more Zander. Bang-bang. Practically on cue. I’m talking bites lining up like buses.

Boats started chugging through, holidaymakers waving, probably assuming I’d trained the fish to perform. The Dog Walker looked at me like I was some sort of wizard. I gave him a few pointers you know, passing on the ancient, sacred knowledge of “put bait in water where fish are.” He mentioned he could fish from the bottom of his garden, at which point I briefly considered moving in with him. Strictly for research purposes, obviously.

Now, they weren’t spawning — not yet — but they were definitely behaving like a group that had pencilled it into their diaries. Tight, active, slightly chaotic. A few dropped runs followed (because Zander are nothing if not committed to keeping your blood pressure interesting), another fish, a couple of near misses… absolute canal carnage. The sort of session where everything happens quickly and you’re never quite sure if you’re in control or just being politely tolerated by the universe.

And then, just like that, it felt right to leave them to it. No point overstaying your welcome when you’ve already gate-crashed the party and eaten all the good snacks. Less than two hours. Multiple fish (2-3lb). One proper lump. A Dog Walker converted. Plans abandoned. Spirits lifted.

Job. Done.

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.146 (Canal Zander)

Ah, St George’s Day when the flags flutter, the ale settles warm in the gut, and a man feels duty-bound to face his own private dragon. Mine, of course, has fins, sulks in the margins, and answers when it answers at all to the name of Zander. Like the saint himself, one must approach with a blend of misplaced confidence and stubborn ritual: a well-thumbed lure box instead of a lance, and faith that somewhere beneath that sullen, tea-stained water, something wicked eyes your offering with grudging intent.

For Zander are no patriotic celebrants. They care not for saints nor songs, only for the slow, deliberate trespass of your bait through their dim dominion. And so, while others toast St George with cheer, I stand towpath side, engaged in my own quiet crusade half myth, half madness hoping, just once, to strike true and feel that unmistakable, dragonish resistance on the line.

Now It was one of those evenings where the sun is doing its absolute best to convince you it’s spring, while the air quietly reminds you that winter hasn’t packed its bags just yet. A nippy wind it was, out of the sun. The sort of nippy wind that sneaks up your sleeves and sits there, grinning. Still, the canal was calling, and like a mug with a fishing rod, I answered. 

The big zander? Nah, they’re still in their winter sulk, probably sat somewhere deep writing passive-aggressive notes about water temperature. But after a day at work, expectations were lower than a limbo stick at a worm’s birthday party.

I wandered down the towpath with that familiar “might just have a quick chuck” optimism, which, as we all know, is a complete lie we tell ourselves before losing two hours and most of our dignity. Bright sunshine blazing away like it’s auditioning for July not ideal for zander, who prefer a bit of gloom and mystery, like teenagers or tax returns. Still, I had a plan. A line of narrowboats sat there, all smug and floaty, casting lovely shady patches beneath them. Perfect ambush spots. If I were a zander, that’s exactly where I’d be tucked under a hull, waiting to mug some unsuspecting scooby snack drifting past like it hadn’t a care in the world.

Now, I’ll be honest, my fishing mojo lately has been wobblier than a jelly in a tumble dryer. One minute I’m obsessed, next minute I’m wondering if I should take up something sensible like stamp collecting or competitive napping. But the weather had that “go on, you know you want to” vibe, so off I went, chasing that elusive tug on the line and a brief escape from reality (and emails).

Anyway, there I am, creeping along like a canal-side ninja, when I nearly stepped in what can only be described as a biological weapon. Dog poo. Not just any dog poo the stealth kind. The kind that blends into the towpath like it’s been trained by special forces. And it got me thinking… we’ve got all this fancy tech in cars now — sensors, cameras, things that beep at you if you so much as think about reversing near a leaf. Advanced Driver-Assistance Systems, they call it. ADAS. Sounds very impressive. Makes you feel like your car’s got a PhD.

So why, in the name of all things fishy, can we not have the same for anglers on towpaths? Imagine it: a lightweight head-mounted device. 

Bit like a futuristic fishing hat. Built-in smell sensors, ultra-HD cameras, maybe even a polite but firm voice that says, “Oi, watch it pal, that’s a size 5 Labrador special at two o’clock.” It could map hazards in real-time. Sync it to your phone. 

Towpath Navigation Mode. Avoidance protocols engaged. You’d look like a complete plonker, obviously, but you’d have clean boots — and frankly, that’s a trade-off I’m willing to make.

I’d invest. No hesitation. In fact, I’m calling it now — if anyone out there is building this masterpiece, put me down first on the Crowdfunder. Early adopter. 

Beta tester. Chief Avoidance Officer. Because nothing ruins a perfectly good fishing session faster than that slow, sickening realisation that your boot has just found something it really shouldn’t have.

Anyway, back to the fishing. Did I catch anything?

Well There are days in fishing when you feel less like an angler and more like a mobile garden ornament strategically placed, mildly optimistic, and largely ignored by anything with fins. 

This, I can confirm, was one of those days. The plan had all the hallmarks of genius: canal Zander, moody conditions, a roach suspended temptingly beneath an over-depth float practically a Michelin-starred offering in piscine terms. 

Naturally, the fish responded with the enthusiasm of Starmer at Prime Ministers Question time. 

An hour passed in what can only be described as “leapfrogging the armada” that familiar canal ballet of edging past moored boats, muttering polite apologies to potted geraniums, and wondering if one more cast might finally convince a Zander that today was, in fact, the day. It wasn’t. 

Not even a murmur. The float remained as motionless as a taxidermy exhibit, while my optimism quietly packed its bags and left without so much as a forwarding address.

The towpath, however, was in full swing. A steady procession of humanity drifted by, including a pair of Labradors operating at what can only be described as glacial speed, accompanied by owners who appeared to be rehearsing for a very slow-motion remake of “When I’m 64.”  (the name of their boat) They passed once. 

Then, in a twist that no one saw coming (except everyone), they returned ten minutes later, retracing their steps with the same leisurely determination. Their boat, I must say, was lovely tastefully adorned with what can only be described as an honest display of laundry. Nothing says “living the dream” quite like underpants fluttering proudly in the spring breeze.

With the sun doing its best impression of a spotlight on an empty stage, I conceded defeat on the bright stretch and slipped over to the darker side a place of shadows, mystery, and significantly fewer Labradors. Fishing tight to some thick cover, I battled not only the elements but also an ongoing conspiracy of drifting grass cuttings and a surface tow that seemed personally invested in moving my float anywhere but where I’d placed it.

Then, just as I was considering composing a heartfelt apology to my tackle for wasting its time, it happened. A bite. Not just any bite a proper, unmistakable Zander take. The left-hand rod sprang to life with all the subtlety of a car alarm, and I struck into something solid. 

Now, I’ll admit, it didn’t exactly bend the rod into a heroic arc, but at that point I’d have happily accepted a mildly enthusiastic stickleback. A fish is a fish is a fish, and this one saved me from the dreaded blank a result celebrated by anglers with the quiet dignity of someone who’s just avoided public embarrassment. 

I gave it another half hour, partly out of hope and partly because packing up immediately would have felt like admitting the fish had only shown up out of pity. No further bites materialised, but that hardly mattered. There had been fresh air, a generous helping of spring sunshine, and—most importantly—proof that I hadn’t entirely forgotten how to catch something. All things considered, it was a success. Not a triumphant, chest-beating, “write to the magazines” sort of success, but a modest, contented nod-to-self kind. And in fishing, as in life, those are often the ones that matter most.

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.8

I arrived at Tramp Alley armed with a noble ambition: to experience the tranquil dignity of the South Stratford Canal. This lasted approximately eleven seconds, or until I slipped on something that may once have been either duck-related or philosophical in origin. Thus began my immersive historical re-enactmentless “Industrial Revolution transport artery,” more “man mildly at odds with mud.” 

The canal itself lounged beside me in that deeply unimpressed way only water can manage. One could almost hear it muttering, “I was completed in 1816, you know,” as if this justified the presence of suspiciously wobbly towpath edges and a duck with the moral authority of a parish councillor. I nodded respectfully, as one does when being silently judged by infrastructure. 

Tramp Alley, I am told, was once a place of spa-going refinement, where genteel visitors sipped mineral waters and discussed ailments with enthusiasm bordering on performance art. I too sampled the local atmosphere, though my intake consisted primarily of midges and regret. It felt authentic. Possibly too authentic. There is something delightfully absurd about canals. Built with grand visions of commerce and empire, they now host slow-moving boats piloted by people named Clive who wave as if they’ve just conquered something. 

History, I reflected, is less about progress and more about who manages to stay upright the longest. As I continued along the towpath, I considered the heroic restoration efforts of the 1960s. Brave souls dredged, rebuilt, and resurrected this waterway from near oblivion. Meanwhile, I struggled to resurrect my dignity after misjudging a puddle of deceptive depth. Their legacy lives on; mine will likely be absorbed into the silt.

I set off for the roach with the kind of misplaced optimism usually reserved for lottery tickets and “quick five-minute jobs” that somehow consume entire afternoons. The air had that crisp, early-morning enthusiasm about it, the sort that suggests great things are about to happen, or at the very least something mildly competent. Naturally, I took this as a sign that today would be a triumphant return to angling glory. Rods packed, bait prepared, dignity loosely attached I marched toward the towpath like a man about to be gently but firmly corrected by reality.

It’s always the same with canals they sit there like retired generals, full of stories, completely unimpressed by your presence, and faintly amused by your inevitable mistakes. I found my first swim, settled in, and within minutes had two small roach. “Ah,” I thought, with dangerous confidence, “today is the day.” This, as it turns out, was the exact moment the universe decided I’d had quite enough encouragement for one morning.

What followed can only be described as an extended masterclass in not catching fish. I moved swims with the optimism of a man rearranging deckchairs on a very uncooperative Titanic. Each new spot looked promising—“That’s got to hold something,” I muttered, as though the fish were listening and considering my proposal. They were not. The canal, meanwhile, maintained its serene composure, as if to say, “You may continue if you wish, but I wouldn’t expect much.”

There is a particular kind of silence that descends when the fish have collectively decided to ignore you. It’s not peaceful it’s pointed. Every ripple feels like a private joke you’re not in on. A duck drifted past at one stage and gave me a look that can only be described as professionally judgmental. If it had a clipboard, I’m certain it would have made a note: “Angler—enthusiastic, but ultimately ineffective.” I considered asking it for advice, but I suspected it would suggest bread and a different career path.

By the second swim, I had entered what experts might call “hope management mode.” This involves lowering expectations in carefully measured increments until success is redefined as “not actively falling into the water.” Bites? Optional. Fish? A luxury. Remaining upright and relatively dry? Now we’re talking. I cast out with renewed determination, which the canal acknowledged by doing absolutely nothing whatsoever.

The third swim was less a strategic decision and more a reluctant acceptance that I had run out of convincing places to blame. “This one,” I told myself, “this is the one.” It wasn’t. At this point, even the midges seemed to lose interest in me, which felt like a new low. When insects that normally regard you as an all-you-can-eat buffet decide you’re not worth the effort, it’s time to reassess your situation.

Still, there’s something wonderfully absurd about it all. Fishing, particularly on canals, has a way of humbling you with surgical precision. One day you’re pulling in fish like a seasoned pro, nodding knowingly at passersby as if you’ve unlocked some ancient aquatic secret. The next, you’re staring at a motionless float, questioning your life choices and wondering if the fish have all relocated to a different postcode out of sheer spite.

I couldn’t help but admire the stubborn charm of the place, though. The canal doesn’t change for anyone. It doesn’t care about your previous success, your carefully chosen bait, or your optimistic early start. It simply exists quietly, persistently, and with just enough unpredictability to keep you coming back. It’s less a hobby and more a long-term negotiation with something that has no intention of meeting you halfway.

Eventually, I packed up with the slow, deliberate movements of a man who has accepted defeat but would prefer not to draw attention to it. Two small roach to show for the effort not exactly headline material, but technically not a blank, which in angling terms is the equivalent of a moral victory. A very small, slightly damp moral victory, but a victory nonetheless. As I trudged back along the towpath, boots carrying more canal than they started with, I reflected on the morning’s events. 

It had been cold, unproductive, mildly humiliating—and oddly enjoyable. Because that’s the thing about fishing: even when it’s terrible, it’s still somehow good. The promise of the next trip, the next cast, the next “this might be the one” moment keeps you hooked far more effectively than any fish ever could. So yes, a short session, a tough morning, and a canal that firmly put me in my place. But give it a day or two and I’ll be back, full of confidence, entirely convinced that this time it will be different. It won’t be, of course—but that’s never really the point, is it?

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.7

Now there is, if you spend any time among river anglers of a certain persuasion (usually slightly damp, faintly bearded, and carrying at least one item of tackle older than their knees), a particular look that appears when the coarse close season rolls around. 

It is not quite grief, not quite boredom, but something in between like being told your favourite pub has shut for renovations and will reopen as a vape shop. 

This, blog readers, is the moment when the suggestion inevitably arises: “Why not try a lake or even a commercial?” And at this point, a silence falls. A deep, meaningful, slightly horrified silence.

Because to many river anglers, fishing a stillwater in the close season feels less like fishing and more like attending a very damp, mildly competitive picnic where the sandwiches occasionally scream and pull back.

Now, this is not to say stillwaters or commercials, for that matter do not have their place. They do. 

They are, objectively, full of fish. Obscenely full of fish. Fish that appear to have been raised on a strict diet of protein pellets and low self-esteem, willing to fling themselves at anything that vaguely resembles food. 

There is a certain efficiency to it all. You arrive, you sit down, and within minutes something is tugging at your line with all the subtlety of a daily deposit specialist encountering a sausage.

But for the river angler, accustomed to the slow, contemplative rhythm of flowing water, this can feel… unsettling.

On a river in April, during the close season, there is a stillness that borders on the sacred. The banks are empty. The swims lie untouched. 

The only sounds are wind through reeds, the occasional plop of something unseen, and your own thoughts usually revolving around how big that chub definitely was last winter. 

You walk the bank not to fish, but to look, to imagine, to quietly conspire with the water about future plans. It is solitude in its purest form, a kind of gentle conspiracy between angler and river.

Compare this to a stillwater in the same period.

You arrive to a car park already hosting a small festival. There are voices. Many voices. Laughter, shouting, the unmistakable beep-beep-beeeeeep of bite alarms going off with the urgency of a reversing lorry in a supermarket car park. Pegs are lined with bivvies resembling a nylon housing estate. Someone is frying something. Someone else is explaining, at volume, how they “had one over twenty yesterday, mate, absolute unit.”

You sit down, carefully threading your way between keepnets, bait buckets, and a gentleman who appears to have brought his entire garage. You cast out. Within moments BEEEEEEP. A fish. Efficient. Immediate. Undeniable.

And yet…

There is no mystery.

On a river, a bite is a question. On a stillwater, it is more of a notification.

Canals, meanwhile, occupy a peculiar middle ground. They promise something of the old world towpaths, narrowboats, a hint of industrial nostalgia but during the close season they often inherit the same crowded enthusiasm as lakes, gravel pits and commercials. Dog walkers and poop peddlers, cyclists, joggers, entire families of ducks and swans with no regard for personal space. The water itself sits there, straight and slightly suspicious, as if it knows it is not quite a river but would very much like you not to mention it.

Fishing a canal can feel like trying to read a book in a corridor.

The scenery, too, plays its part in this quiet rebellion against “soulless holes.” A river is never the same twice. Light changes it, rain reshapes it, seasons repaint it entirely. One bend might hold deep, shadowed secrets; the next, a shallow glide sparkling like something out of a dream you forgot upon waking. You are not just fishing you are participating in something alive, something that existed long before you and will continue long after you’ve lost your favourite float in a tree.

A stillwater, by contrast, is often… consistent. Reassuringly, relentlessly consistent. The same pegs, the same margins, the same islands placed with geometric certainty. The same fish, too, though perhaps that’s unkind they are individuals, each with their own hopes, dreams, and alarming willingness to eat bright orange spheres. But the setting rarely surprises you. It is designed not to.

And that is, perhaps, the crux of it.

River anglers are, at heart, romantics. Slightly impractical, occasionally muddy romantics. They do not just want to catch fish they want to feel something while doing it. They want the uncertainty, the waiting, the quiet triumph of decoding a stretch of water that initially gave them nothing but suspicion and a nettle sting. They want the story.

On a stillwater, you often get the ending first.

Of course, there are those who happily fish both worlds, slipping between river and lake with admirable flexibility, enjoying each for what it offers. And they are probably healthier, both mentally and in terms of catch rates. But for the dyed-in-the-wool river angler, the close season presents a peculiar kind of exile.

So they walk the banks instead.

They peer into swims like archaeologists of their own past successes. They nod knowingly at overhanging branches. They mutter things like “that’ll do in September” to nobody in particular. And somewhere, in the distance, a bite alarm echoes faintly across a lake, a mechanical birdsong of efficiency. 

The river angler pauses, listens for a moment, and then carries on walking content, slightly smug, and absolutely certain that whatever that noise represents, it is not quite fishing as they understand it.
Anyway to the canal forthwith where I arrived at the stretch with all the optimism of a man who has absolutely no evidence things will go well, but a stubborn belief that today—today—the roach would queue like civilised humans, not feral pigeons. 

The canal lay there motionless, looking less like a thriving waterway and more like someone had spilled a very long puddle and forgotten to mop it up. Still, this was hallowed ground. Legends had been made here, not only decent Zander but there are carp here to be caught as well. Well, one legend. Mine. And I intended to remind the fish of that fact.

The ghosts of past glories were hard to ignore. That old zander the nine-pounder that I caught many moons ago turned into a proper canal heifer had clearly spent its days hoovering up the unfortunate descendants of those 20,000 silver fish that were stocked when maggot peddler Martyn who owns the local tackle shop used to lease the stretch. 

It must have waddled about down there like a chubby underwater landlord. And then of course came the near twelve-pounder from the Hallowed 20 miles away, which I like to think of as the canal’s way of apologising for everything else it’s ever done to me. So naturally, with that sort of history, I fully expected either a record roach or a carp with delusions of grandeur to turn up within minutes.

Tactics, as always, were flawless in theory. A gentle introduction of liquidised bread went in clouding the water like I’d just tipped in a bag of canal-flavoured milkshake followed by maggots under a lift-method float. Classic, elegant, deadly… in magazines. Alongside that, the sleeper rod sat poised with a boilie, alarm set, looking far more professional than anything else in my setup. It’s always nice to have at least one rod that suggests you know what you’re doing, even if the rest of the scene screams otherwise.

Anyway to cut a long story short I arrived at the bank armed with optimism, maggots, and the vague athleticism required to squat down for a couple of hours, only to discover the fish were already in a cooperative mood—either that or they pitied me. Before the first boat rudely announced the concept of “morning traffic” at 8:30, I’d amassed a respectable tally of bites, several of which I gallantly declined to convert into actual fish, purely to keep things sporting. 

The highlight was a plucky hybrid that fought like it had something to prove—unfortunately not its identity as a roach, which would have seen my personal best shattered and my ego inflated to dangerous levels. Still, clear skies and blazing sunshine conspired to suggest fishing should have been dreadful, yet by the ancient and noble technique of “chucking a maggot somewhere vaguely promising,” I managed to prove otherwise. 

The real spectacle, however, was the parade of humanity: six joggers pretending to enjoy themselves, five cyclists dressed like escaped highlighters, and two dog walkers being dragged by creatures with far more purpose than their owners. All in all, not a bad morning—fish caught, dignity mostly intact, and only minimal resentment toward passing boats. Oh and nought on the sleeper rod. 

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.145 (Canal Zander)

I rewatched Altered States the other night and was reminded that long before any of us were overthinking a canal float, John C. Lilly was busy climbing into isolation tanks, experimenting with things like LSD and ketamine, and asking his brain what it fancied doing without the inconvenience of reality. Dolphins, tanks, chemicals proper commitment to the idea that consciousness might be more elastic than a length of worn-out pole elastic. And watching it, I couldn’t help thinking: this is just roach fishing taken to its logical extreme.

 Because when you’re after a proper canal two-pounder, you’re not that far off yourself. Sit still long enough, stare hard enough at a motionless float, and eventually something shifts not in the water, but in you. Time stretches, thoughts wander, and you start to suspect the roach are operating on a level you’ve yet to access.

Then the float lifts. Just slightly. Enough.

No tank required. No dolphins either. Just you, the canal, and a brief glimpse into something deeper about two pounds of it, if you’re lucky.

Now getting back on track there are moments in life when a man must confront two unavoidable truths: firstly, that his body is no longer the finely tuned angling machine it once was and my back and knee are still not 100%, and secondly, that sometimes the fish have simply formed a union and voted unanimously against being caught. 

The past few canal sessions had delivered precisely that sort of democratic resistance floats motionless, maggots unmolested, and me sat there like an unpaid extra in a very dull documentary about still water. So, being forcibly removed from the bankside for a few days was, in hindsight, less a tragedy and more a state-sponsored recovery programme for a creaking carcass that had begun to sound like a bag of snapped twigs every time I lifted the landing net.

Of course, the reason for this enforced sabbatical was 16 year old Ben, who required entertaining and looking after whilst the better half and Sam were away gallivanting in Chester with what I can only assume involved excessive chatter, laughter, and absolutely no appreciation for the delicate art of float watching. 

Now, experience has taught me that dragging a youngster along to the canal in the vague hope he’ll share your enthusiasm is a risky strategy. Last time resulted in approximately seven minutes of interest, followed by an hour of existential boredom and in Ben's different mind most likely a critique of why fishing is “basically just sitting.” So this time, I pivoted. Parks, snacks, mild chaos anything but subjecting him to the hypnotic non-event that had become my recent fishing trips.

By the time everyone reconvened for a curry the Saturday evening an event which, incidentally, required far more stamina than any canal session I was already plotting. Because Sunday morning loomed large, and with it, opportunity. The rods practically hummed in anticipation, or possibly that was just me trying to stand up after the aforementioned curry. Either way, the decision was made: back to the towpath, back to familiar territory, back to the scene of previous roach-based encouragement.

The alarm did its duty at 5:30am, but as I peeled myself out of bed and shuffled downstairs, the world outside looked less like promise and more like punishment. A proper hoolie still tearing through, though the sky mockingly was crystal clear. I gave it a long enough stare to convince myself I’d made the effort, muttered the inevitable “not today,” and retreated to the sanctuary of a couple of over-generous pillows. Sensible? Perhaps. Honest? Definitely.

Truth be told, the canals still haven’t got under my skin this close season. I’ve given them a fair crack, but there’s a certain lifelessness about it all at the minute hard to put your finger on, but you know it when you feel it. This morning’s frost won’t have helped either; just another little nudge in the wrong direction when you’re already struggling to muster enthusiasm.

Sunday, then, became what Sundays sometimes ought to be—unhurried. A wander for a bit of fresh air, pale sunshine doing its best to pass as spring, followed by a proper beef dinner that did far more for morale than any blank session could. By the time the plates were cleared and the light began to soften, the itch returned quietly, but persistently.

So the Zander gear was dusted off and readied. No grand expectations, no heroic notions just that familiar pull to be near the water again after work. Because for all the false starts, frosty mornings, and fleeting enthusiasm, the truth remains: it only takes one bite to put everything back into perspective.

And that’s usually reason enough.

 Anyway I set off with the kind of optimism only a close-season angler can muster the delusional belief that today, finally, everything would go exactly to plan. 

Of course, within minutes it became clear that the only thing going exactly to plan was the local dog population’s coordinated effort to carpet the entire stretch in what can only be described as tactical deposits. It wasn’t a path, it was an assault course. 

A brown minefield. One wrong step and you’re carrying eau de Labrador all the way home. Still, with the grace of a bomb disposal expert and the foresight of a man armed with pink marker paint, I negotiated the worst of it and lived to cast another day.

Now, this particular bit of cover and I use the word “cover” loosely, because it’s about as deep as a puddle in a car park has always intrigued me.

 It’s barely a couple of feet deep, yet the Zander seem to treat it like a five-star retreat. Why? No idea. Perhaps they enjoy the thrill. Perhaps they’re just showing off. 

Either way, last season it produced a 6 and a 7, which in angling terms is enough evidence to convince you it’s basically the Amazon. So naturally, I was back, creeping along like a hopeful burglar, laying traps.

Ten minutes. That’s all it took. Ten minutes of smug self-satisfaction before the right-hand float suddenly sprang into life like it had seen a ghost. Off it went, darting under the cover with purpose. I tightened into the circle hook, felt that glorious resistance… and then chaos. 

The fish bolted right like it had remembered an urgent appointment, the rod finally hooped over and ping. Gone. Just a swirl, a disturbance, and me stood there blinking like I’d just been mugged by a fish. “Damn it,” I muttered, in the understated way of a man absolutely fuming inside.

Undeterred (translation: stubborn beyond reason), I got the bait back out. And apparently, the culprit hadn’t read the “once bitten, twice shy” handbook, because within five minutes the left float did exactly the same dance. This time I was ready. Tightened in, rod bends, and yes — we’re attached. A proper scrap ensued, none of this polite nibbling nonsense. After a spirited tussle and a few muttered negotiations, a Zander slid into the net. Not a monster, no, but in that moment it might as well have been a record-breaker. A blank saver. A morale booster. A fish that said, “Alright, you’re not completely useless.”

The plan had only ever been a couple of hours, and to be honest, the conditions weren’t exactly rolling out a red carpet. A bit of chop on the water, some tow dragging everything sideways, and enough floating debris to start a small island forming around my line. It was less “precision fishing” and more “ongoing battle with nature.” I worked my way down the stretch, probing each bit of sparse cover, but aside from the earlier excitement, it all went a bit quiet. No more takes, no more drama  just me, the wind, and the ever-present threat of stepping in something regrettable.

And that was that. Rods packed away, boots (miraculously) still clean, and the fishing itch well and truly scratched. No monsters, no heroics, but a tale to tell and dignity mostly intact  which, given the circumstances, feels like a win.